Dec 9, 2012
Tonight
I was supposed to be in my own space, contemplating Oscar Wilde hunched up in fluffy blankets. Instead I'm up here, supposedly sleeping, in skinny jeans and too thin of a t-shirt writing panic poetry. I can't sleep once the breath of those in the room is the combatant of the nighttime wakefulness. Silence, music- maybe. If I'm sleeping with someone, sleep has to come to me first or as it settles on the diaphragm of the other. If not, the world takes on too much peace and beauty and worth to spit in its gift and sleep.